Being at Sandhurst was the worst and best two years of my life. It was quite hard to be away from my family, and I found there was little room for personal expression, in other words, having a personality. In my time at the academy, I experienced sleep deprivation, punishments for minor infringements, freezing-cold exercises, injuries, exhaustion, and a very steep learning curve. Nothing I experienced hurt or was harder than missing Pia, though.
Conversely, as a military officer to be, I thrived. Whenever there was a competition, which was daily or several times a day, I consistently landed in first or second place. The man who bested me at least half the time, became my best friend.
Keon Edgemon and I met during in-processing, and our rooms were next to each other. He was a good bloke—funny, intelligent, committed, and seemed to have an innate sense as to when I needed time on my own. It wasn’t a trait many of our fellow cadets shared. Too often, I’d find myself in conversations I cared little of. More, I resented them. While the physical aspect of our training was ri
gorous, it was the academics that gave me the most pause. Keon, an ace student, would frequently rescue me by engaging offenders in his own conversation.
Our final day at the institution that had been around since 1802 and graduated innumerable officers into the British Army, culminated with a celebratory dinner, during which we’d be commissioned as second lieutenants and receive our first assignments. We’d also be given our call signs, initially put into place to save our true identities from the enemy when transmissions were intercepted. Now, it was more a rite of passage.
“I’m not much of a speechmaker,” said our commander after we were officially commissioned, “so I’m going to get down to business. Each of you has a sealed envelope in front of you. You may open them now.”
The sound of them being ripped open filled the hall; otherwise, it was silent.
“What did you get?” asked Keon, leaning close to me.
“Monckton.”
“Brilliant.”
“You too?”
“Affirmative.”
Both Keon and I would be leaving Sandhurst and report directly to Fort Monckton, where we’d train for six months in the Intelligence Officer’s New Entry Course. Only two cadets from each graduating class were selected for the program. Both Keon and I had applied, and as he said, it was brilliant that we were the ones chosen.
“Call sign?” I asked.
He rolled his eyes and handed me the piece of paper.
“Edge?”
“Also bloody brilliant,” he deadpanned. “What’s yours?”
“Grinder.”
“Better than Stoner, I suppose.”
I laughed. The call sign committee had not exercised much creativity in our assigned names. Those also seated at our table appeared to feel the same degree of disappointment.
I didn’t care. Being accepted at Monckton was reward enough for the hard work I’d put in.
“Fancy a pint?” Keon asked after we’d collected our belongings and finished with our final room inspection.
“I could stand one.”
“Ready to head back to London?” he asked as we sat at the local pub, celebrating our assignments.
“For now.” We had seven days’ leave before we had to report to Monckton. I’d given little thought to what I’d do other than catch up on a year’s worth of missed sleep. That, and figuring out a way to see Pia.
So far, neither of us had been able to come up with a way to make it work. She was in the midst of final exams, and by the time they ended, I’d have to report for SIS training.
“You?”
“Traveling,” he answered.
“Where to?”
“Somewhere in the Mediterranean.”